


Inappropriate

by dorothydonne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothing Kink, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 08:09:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15214814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothydonne/pseuds/dorothydonne
Summary: John wears a suit. Sherlock is interested.***This, of course, is the filthy kind of sex. The kind that makes you blush when it pops into your mind at a crime scene, or during a meeting at the Yard. The kind that gets you through a dry spell when you need a quick wank to clear your mind.This, I think, is the kind of sex people refer to asfucking.





	Inappropriate

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one afternoon on my iPad, so I apologize if there are any weird autocorrect issues. I tried to catch them all!

The afternoon is stifling in a musty, boring sort of way—not necessarily hot, but it’s certainly stuffier in here than I’d normally prefer. Nothing seems destined to satisfy me today as I volley between my experiments, sulking on the sofa, and back again. I’ve shut the windows to drown out the sounds of the city outside, the bustling hum of London reminding me that people are going on with their day-to-day minutiae rather than committing interesting crimes. 

I’ve skipped along through the channels on the telly, hoping to find some ridiculous police procedural that has a case I won’t solve in under a minute. There was even that true-life one that claimed to be about unsolved murders, yet not a single one held my interest. 

It’s almost always a jilted lover. Why doesn’t anyone ever seem to understand?

It’s positively hateful how predictable murders are these days.

John, of course, is out among the common folk tending to daily life. He’s at some cousin or other’s funeral. No one he was close to, but John Watson is a terminally loyal man; he had to pay his respects even though he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to pick the fellow out of a lineup.

I probably could—all the Watsons have the same nose.

So I’m sat waiting for him to come back to Baker Street like some idle teen sitting by a stubbornly silent phone. Not that I think his return will make this Tuesday afternoon any less trite, but having him to moan at certainly improves my day by degrees.

Misery loves company, &c.

My microscope and the blood sample I’m scrutinizing are proving to be equally uninteresting as the rest of this godforsaken afternoon when I finally hear the downstairs door open, followed by John’s dress-shoed feet on the stairs. The fancy shoes provide significantly less traction, so he always takes the steps slower than he would if he were in any other footwear. 

I look up when he calls my name, crossing the threshold into the kitchen like he expects to find something corroding, and that’s when I see him for the first time today. It gives me pause, and time slows to allow me a moment of visual exploration. 

I quickly take in the careful lines of his new suit, purchased for this occasion, the creases from where he’s been sitting at the service, the way the charcoal grey brings out the ocean blue in his eyes, the faded watermark where a relative cried on his shoulder. From top to bottom, he’s remarkably handsome in a bespoke sort of way. 

Made to fit me. 

I am instantly _interested_. 

“Looks like you’ve had a productive day,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to the open dressing gown that does nothing to cover my bare chest and thin pajama bottoms. There once was a time when I wouldn’t understand his sarcasm. I’m loath to remember it—that time when we didn’t completely understand each other and had to dance around implications and unclear social cues and bumbling flirtation like two souls lost in the dark. 

One hand comes up to tug at his tie, loosening it with intent to remove, but I’m there in an instant. 

“Don’t.” I catch his hand where it rests against the imperfect knot (he should’ve asked me to tie it before he left), holding his eyes with an intensity I know he’ll be able to read. His blue eyes are questioning, but there’s certainly a hint of heated interest behind them. A question of exactly where this might be going. And a bit of “ _why?_ ”

Still, he licks his lips in anticipation.

Knowing that he won’t continue to tug at the tie, I trace my hand down the arm of his suit, feeling the wrinkles from wear at his elbow and the sharp creases that remain from when he cursed under his breath while ironing it this morning. I’d been in a sulk on the couch as he prepared to leave, awaiting the hateful day that stood in front of me like a vast, dry desert—but it brought me to this. I imagine that I can feel every thread of fabric woven into this suit, and then I wonder what it would feel like pressed up against my naked skin.

I know what a suit feels like, of course. I wear them almost exclusively—they’re my personal brand of armor. But here is a soldier in front of me, unarmed, his breath slowly going heavy with the implication of my hand on his hip, sliding below the suit jacket to curl around his flank, just barely separated from his skin by the soft cotton of his dress shirt. 

My right hand slips up from his elbow, curls over his shoulder and around to the nape of his neck, where the starched collar of his dove-grey dress shirt ends with the neck of the suit jacket, and then there’s just a flash of skin before his hair begins. It’s gotten a bit long in recent weeks, but I like it as my fingers brush through it and take in the many textures—cotton, wool blend, skin, silver-gold hair—and then I pull him toward me, giving him a moment to back a way (but also knowing that he won’t).

Instead of kissing him (as he clearly expects, based on his droopy eyes and the instinctual leftward tilt of his head), I tilt to my left, ducking to press my lips just below his ear, barely keeping above his collar. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he says, suddenly breathless. His hands move to my naked waist below my dressing gown, pulling me closer. I can feel the cuffs of his shirt and the metallic chill of his cufflinks against my skin. It makes me shiver a bit with pure anticipation.

I want all of him against all of me. 

I dip my tongue into the shadows below his collar, shameless in my admiration for his carefully crafted ensemble, from his shiny shoes to the black silk pocket square.

In counterpoint, he lifts his hands to push the dressing gown from my shoulders, leaving me in nothing but my pajama bottoms.

We’ve never done this before—never had such a clothing disparity between us. It’s usually a duel of hands to see who can get more buttons undone in less time, who can get naked first. But the more of me that is bared to him, the more determined I am to keep him fully clothed. 

I press myself against him from chest to groin, marveling at the feel of his shirt buttons leaving an imprint on my belly where his tie has shifted away in invitation. The obsidian silk of the tie rubs against my left nipple as I move (somehow both warm and cool at the same time, an erotic experiment for another time) and I groan into his ear, barely restraining myself from biting down on the collar of his shirt where it peaks out of his suit jacket. 

My hands, which have somehow snaked their way back under his suit and along the firm and wrinkle-free expanse of the shirt pulled across his back, slowly meander back to his hips, and then to my own to assist him in pushing my bottoms to the floor.

I sidestep them, pulling him with me toward the living room. 

As we move I catch him trying to shrug off his suit jacket.

That simply won’t do.

“Leave it.” I pull it back up onto his shoulders, then adjust it a bit so it’s all settled properly. He’s standing just shy of the threshold from the kitchen to the sitting room, and the crinkled look on his face tells me he thinks me insane. Like dressing him is somehow counterproductive to getting what I want. 

Instead of vocalizing my desire, I sink to my knees in front of him, hoping this will provide an ample distraction from the fact that he clearly feels ridiculous about being fully clothed when I’m completely bare.

I keep his trousers buttoned, but unzip them, as clear a sign of my intentions as I can give. When I look up at him, he wets his lips, clearly on the verge of asking a question. But he bites down firmly, keeping the question at bay when I get a hand inside his flies and maneuver his half-hard prick out into the open air. 

It’s hot and moderately humid in my hand, very clearly interested in the proceedings even if John isn’t quite sure what’s gotten into me. 

I have some certainty that _John_ will be getting into me forthwith. 

John maintains eye contact, breathing heavily through his nose as I slowly bring my mouth to the head of his cock and close my lips around it, dipping my tongue into the fold of his foreskin.

I wonder what I must look like—on my knees, completely naked in front of this gorgeously pressed man in a charcoal suit, my head bobbing at his groin. I keep my eyes open and directed upwards as I work his cock between my lips, opening wider and taking him deeper as he hardens, meeting his full potential on my eager tongue. 

The point of his tie touches my cheek, but he pushes it away, leaving his hand there in its wake. 

My right hand, which would normally curl against his cock and golden pubic hair to keep everything steady, is instead pressed into the groin of his suit trousers, occasionally meeting the bottom hem of his jacket. The trousers can’t contain the smell of him, the smell of his sex clouding my head and making me want to pull him even closer. 

John’s hand settles on the back of my neck, curving protectively but also in a way that reminds me of the last time he held me in place while he took his pleasure. I still, inspired by the flash memory, and look up at him expectantly. 

He swallows, hesitating.

After a brief moment, I put my hands on his arse and give him an unsubtle pull.

I have to lower my gaze and adjust the angle in order to accommodate the length of him, but when he starts to slowly thrust into my mouth, my mind goes blissfully silent except for the intake of physical sensation. I groan around the slick slide of him, taking care to breathe when he retreats and to give a concurrent sweep of my tongue. When he pulls nearly all the way out, leaving only the tip inside, I revel in the fact that there’s a wet spot near his flies where my mouth has been making contact on every small thrust. I’m slowly but surely defiling his lovely suit whether he realizes it or not. 

On the next slide in, I hold him close, fingers digging into his arse through his trousers, and groan deeply at the feeling of his cock in my throat and his silk tie on my forehead. I can just barely feel the hint of his metal zipper. 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he gasps, letting out a bitten-off moan that sounds wonderfully filthy when paired with my name and a wheeze. He reaches out to grasp at the wall, holding me close with the other. When I’ve almost stayed down for too long, John pulls me back, letting me take in a deep, shuddering breath through my nose before guiding me down for more. I let him take his time with each thrust, building slowly. I’m not in a rush—if anything, I want this to last.

Who knows when John will wear this suit again?

He’s been fully hard, but now I can taste a steady stream of pre-come seeping from the tip when I run my tongue over his head. Stabilizing it with my hand once more, I lick my way from base to tip, curling my tongue around the glans before dipping my tongue into the bead of moisture waiting at the crown.

My own cock is throbbing where it rests on my thighs, weighed down by my arousal. As John replaces my hand with his own and taps his prick twice against my flushed cheeks, I think once more about what a wanton picture I must paint—Sherlock Holmes, naked and on his knees for his blogger, leaking cock hanging hard and completely ignored. 

I can deduce everything about my current appearance from the way John is looking at me—I look filthy and ripe for the taking, same as I feel. My hair is disheveled in a way John enjoys because he knows he’s the only one who will ever see it like this—so-called “sex hair” (though I have never been able to tell the difference between that and my normal state). My cheeks are flushed, eyes a bit glassy, and my lips are plump and red from taking his cock with such abject enthusiasm. 

He’d never admit it, but I know he likes to see me vulnerable when it’s just the two of us. 

As if to prove my unspoken point, he paints his pre-come across my lips, then dips the head of his cock into my mouth once more. Not forceful, just a hint past my lips. And I moan again at the taste of him, wanting more, wishing I could make him come like this, let him mark me as his alone by spending across my cheeks. 

But there’s so much more that I want right now. 

I hum around the head of his cock, circling it with my tongue, and then release him with a lewd _pop_. Lowering my face to the base of his cock, I stroke the head with one hand and look up to meet his half-lidded eyes. It’s easy to give in to the urge to snake my tongue along the base where he’s still slightly contained by his trousers. 

I can taste his shudder. 

“I want you to fuck me like this.” I run my free hand down the side of his clothed hip, hoping the message is clear.

_I want you to fuck me in this suit._

His hands cup my face and he pulls me upward, so I follow, pressing our cocks together as he claims my mouth. His tongue dips between my lips, hungry, and our groans are in unison as he tastes himself on me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this filthy, like my sole purpose in the world was to please John Watson.

But given that I’m currently treating him like a suited-up sex doll, I suppose it’s only fair. 

I slip away from his mouth to tuck my tongue into his collar, proceeding to graze my teeth over his Adam’s apple, and he grips my hips to roll against me, beautiful friction that’s just barely slicked with our mutual passion. I was right about the suit against my naked skin—the soft rustling of fabric seems amplified as he runs his hands over my bare back, pulling me infinitely closer so I can feel the buckle of his belt just next to my cock. When he grips my arse in his worshipful hands, spreading the cheeks in anticipation, I nearly come just from the feeling of his tie brushing against my cockhead.

I break away before we can start rutting like a pair of teenagers and lead him over to the couch, gesturing for him to sit in the center. While John makes himself comfortable, I go to the table to dig out a tube of lubricant from a drawer.

I turn around, victorious, and am unsurprised to see that he’s sitting—as spread-legged as he can be while fully dressed—and stroking his cock slowly as he watches me.

I stop for a moment and catalogue everything about the way he looks—the peachy-rose glow of his cheeks that spreads down his neck and below his shirt collar, how his eyes roam over my naked body with both pride and possessiveness behind them, and the jut of his full cock from the zip of his trousers, hot, red, and leaking. 

And every last bit of this picture of John Watson is for me. 

_Because_ of me. 

“Stay there,” he says when I start to move toward him. His voice is deeper than usual, tinged with lust, and it gives me pause, standing in the center of the room naked with a tube of lube in my hand. He gives his cock two slow, languid strokes to fill the silence. 

“Bend over the table and… get yourself ready.” He goes breathless on the last few words, twisting his closed fist over the tip of his cock. 

My eyes shoot to the open door and into the stairwell, and I can think of at least two dozen ways we could be interrupted—all of them ending in various levels of embarrassment for us and the parties who could intrude. 

Still, I’m not one to deny him when he has a rare good idea, so instead of bolting the door and returning, I simply turn and present myself for his voyeuristic pleasure. Shameless. 

Various plates, mail, and other (non-toxic) detritus are in my immediate line of view as I set one elbow down to steady myself. John’s delighted little moan from behind me tells me that he’s not thinking about the mess (for a change), so I ignore the fact that he asked me a dozen times to pay the heating bill, and instead I flip the cap from the bottle and turn it, liberally coating my right hand in the slick.

Drips and drops scatter across the table (including the heating bill) as I move my hand behind me, pressing with two fingers straightaway, just barely teasing myself with the fingertips at the entrance.

Behind me, John’s strokes speed up, if his breathing and the sound of his suit slowly wrinkling into oblivion are anything to go by.

It’s surprisingly simple to push my first two fingers inside, scissoring a bit to ensure a sufficient coating of the lubricant. My body is still primed from the muscle memory of a good seeing-to just yesterday morning, when we’d rolled over from sleep and had a slow, blissful morning of lovemaking.

This, of course, is the filthy kind of sex. The kind that makes you blush when it pops into your mind at a crime scene, or during a meeting at the Yard. The kind that gets you through a dry spell when you need a quick wank to clear your mind. 

_This,_ I think as I start to pump those two fingers, spreading my legs and arching my back for show, _is the kind of sex people refer to as_ fucking.

“Another.” His request is wrapped in a gusty moan, nearly cut off. 

I oblige him, pressing a third finger in as my arse drops down, fucking myself on my long (but still inadequate) fingers. My cock hangs between my legs, neglected, throbbing, begging for friction, occasionally brushing the wood of the table. I briefly wonder if the clear-headed John of tomorrow will chastise me at breakfast for getting pre-come on his side of the table.

I scissor my fingers again, moaning too loudly as my middle finger brushes over my prostate, making my cock twitch and drip liberally. Part of me is certain I’d sell my soul for John Watson to pull my hand away and take me over this table right now, but that’s not what I want—what I want is the picture behind me.

When I turn around, John looks even more wrecked than he was before—his eyes immediately drop to my prick, where it’s begging for his attention. His hair is disheveled where he’s run a hand through it while watching me finger myself with gusto, dreaming of his cock. And what was once a light blush on his face is now a rouge that stains him from hairline to collar. He’s given up on the deep breaths through his nose and is now gently panting through parted lips.

He looks utterly debauched and we’ve barely even gotten to the main attraction.

“John Watson,” I say as I cross back over to the couch, “you look absolutely filthy.”

“Speak for yourself.” He grabs my arm and pulls me none-too-gently onto his lap, letting me straddle his suited thighs and hips. I imagine the way the trail of lube dripping down my thighs must leave patches on the fabric of his suit, staining the trousers irreparably. 

His cock strains up against my arse, and I know he’s more than ready for me to slick him up so he can slide home. But there’s something else I want to do first.

I draw back and he tries to pull me in, but I resist, slithering down the front of him and back onto my knees.

“Oh, fuck,” he says when I slip my lips back over the head of his cock. It’s more comfortable for both of us, I think, when he’s seated this way. His legs attempt to spread further for me, but his trousers won’t accommodate him. Instead, I hold be base of him in my hand, curling my fingers to steady him, and then slowly glide my lips down with firm suction.

His hand shoots to my shoulder, gripping my bare skin as his shirtsleeve grazes my collarbone. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” He manages to get the words out while I pull back, meeting his eyes as he bites his lip and I pull his foreskin forward, sliding my tongue inside to swirl around the covered head of his prick. “Do that again—oh, fuck.” I redouble my efforts, tracing the throbbing veins of his cock with my tongue before once again taking the sensitive head into my mouth, tightening my lips to create a seal as my tongue laps at the slit in a sinful curve.

John’s head falls back, thumping into the wall without a care in the world, groaning my name in both worship and warning.

If I don’t stop, he’s going to come.

We can’t have that now, can we?

His hand on the back of my neck creeps up into my hair, gently, regretfully pulling me away even as I willingly retreat. I give his cock one last kiss, wetly, holding his eyes once more as I let my tongue snake out to collect the bead of moisture at the tip.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he declares as I push myself to standing. I ignore the creakiness in my knees from my two stints on the floor this afternoon, and crawl back into his lap, letting his cock settle between my still-wet arse cheeks. His hands do a synchronized once-over up and down my flank before he curves them around my hips to grip my buttocks, spreading the cheeks and giving them a deep massage. “Thankfully,” he adds, looking down at where he is completely clothed and I’m bare to the world, “I’m already dressed for my funeral.”

I roll my eyes at his wheezed attempt at sex humor and grab the lubricant from where I’d dropped it on the couch upon my return. It takes a moment to properly lubricate him without getting too much onto his suit jacket, but when I lift myself onto my knees to wrap my slick hand around his cock, my own erection rubs itself against the silk of his black tie, leaving a wet spot of its own in stark contrast. 

I could very well spend myself right here, right now, thrusting aimlessly against his tie with my hand around his wet prick. But he seems to understand the risk, and once my hand has taken a full tour of his anatomy, he slowly pulls my arm away, lowering me back down with intention.

I kiss him once more, sliding my tongue past his lips and over his front teeth, moving on to slowly fucking his mouth in small thrusts of my tongue against his, letting him taste himself. It’s a difficult kiss at this angle, but I manage to swallow his groan before pulling back. 

Beneath me, I can feel him positioning himself, wrapping his hand around his own cock to set it in place for me to lower myself onto him. One hand steadies me on my hip as I raise myself up onto my knees again, and then he’s guiding his cock home, pressing against my willing hole as I sink back down on top of him.

The feeling of his strong body beneath me, fully clothed and almost caged by his trousers, is a new sensation that I have to slowly catalogue as he breaches me. His bare cock stretches my rim, but I’m momentarily distracted by the feeling of the fabric from his trousers between my thighs, against my calves where I’m straddling him. The point of his tie teases my cockhead as he presses up into me and I simultaneously push down, drawing him in deeper. Where my hands clasp his shoulders there is soft, freshly-pressed fabric instead of his beautifully scarred skin. 

His hands spread fully across my arse as I reach the bottom of his cock, and as soon as he’s fully inside me, he grasps both cheeks and spreads them, allowing me to sink down just a fraction farther. It burns fantastically, and I lean forward to release just the smallest bit of him before sinking back down again.

I’m so high above him like this, looking down at where he’s slowly sinking deeper into the couch. It makes me feel powerful to be in control of his pleasure like this, even when he’s the one who is fully clothed and buried to the hilt inside me.

He’s also looking down at where we’re joined, where my cock is pressed into the dove-grey of his dress shirt and leaking liberally. I watch him lick his lips and I know he’s imagining getting his mouth on me.

But now’s not the time for that.

His eyes shoot up to mine when I give a tentative thrust of my hips, enjoying the way his trousers drag against the skin on my inner thighs, under my balls. His hands on my naked hips begin to guide me as I move into a slow bounce, totally in control of the amount of his cock that moves inside me, not letting him get enough traction to take control. 

There will be time for him to get his, but I want this right now. 

I balance myself with a hand on the back of the sofa and the other on his shoulder under his suit jacket, and then, giving in to the need for friction, I let myself ride him with abandon. I’m pushing back into his grippy hands, then driving my neglected cock forward into the lines and folds of his shirt. I savor every stroke of his cock against my prostate, occasionally angling myself away lest I stimulate myself too much and come far too soon. I have other plans for us—so after just barely beginning, I slow myself down, taking him at a maddeningly slow pace after such a vigorous start.

Long minutes pass as I vary the pace, taking what I need and then grinding to a halt, finding the edge only to retreat. I’m reading him in the bruising grip of his fingers and the moans that slip from his throat. 

I lean forward, folding myself a bit too far in order to claim his mouth, but as soon as my lips are back on his, he’s gripping me hard, following each of my downward thrusts with a fingerprint-leaving squeeze.

“Please,” he gasps into my mouth, thrusting up as much as he can to meet me, and I know he wants it harder, faster, rougher. I’m riding him leisurely now, slow enough that I can feel the tantalizing stretch every time my body comes close to releasing him. I’m memorizing the way his thighs tremble in his suit, how his shoulders feel when I wrap my arms around them, fully clothed and quaking. There’s sweat on the back of his neck, making his collar moist under my fingertips. “Please,” he says again when I stop, leaving him buried deep as I shift my hips in a torturously slow circle.

He groans, dropping his head back onto the sofa. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he says, and then he licks his lips and peers at me through half-shut eyes. His pupils have almost overtaken the irises, and I fold myself down to kiss him again, pressing our open mouths together, barely coordinated and loudly breathy. The folds of his trousers where the fabric has bunched up around his cock rubs against my arse, reminding me of his state of dress (as if I could ever forget).

“I want you to flip me over,” I whisper in his ear, letting myself give in to the urge to nibble at his ear. “I want you to turn me over and take what you need.”

He groans again, hands gripping at my bare arse and roaming up my back, seeming unsure of where they most want to be, which patch of naked skin they most want to caress. I gift him a little wiggle of my hips before sliding up and down one more time, just barely keeping the head of him inside me. And then he pulls me up, only slowing down to carefully disengage, distracting me with a kiss as he brings us both to standing. And then, with a restrained show of force, he guides me back onto the couch, on my knees facing away from him. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He rubs the head of his cock over my stretched hole, just barely kissing it with his tip. My spread thighs, burning and trembling already from the exertion, can feel the heat radiating off of him through his suit, and I nod at the wallpaper behind the sofa. I’m leaning forward on my elbows, nearly putting my cheek against the wall.

“Is that a yes?” He gives a little nudge with his cock, a hint that he’ll give me what I want if I just give him a verbal response.

“Yes, John,” I respond, pressing back into the gentle pressure and spreading my legs even further. “Please.”

His hands splay across my arse cheeks (further proving to no one but me that John Watson is an arse man) giving me an appreciative squeeze. And then he withdraws one hand to help guide his cock home. 

We groan simultaneously as he enters me once more, and when he’s steady enough, he lets both hands return to gripping, spreading my cheeks as he watches himself penetrate me.

“Christ, that’s beautiful,” he mutters, pushing forward incrementally until he’s fully seated inside. Feeling his his trousers against my naked legs as he stands behind me, and the full knowledge of what we must look like right now, makes me groan and drop my forehead against the cool wallpaper. I can feel where his unbuttoned jacket drapes across my hips, enclosing me just slightly and tickling me with each thrust as he starts to move. 

When he bends forward I nearly come undone at the teasing touch of the tip of his tie hanging down against the small of my back. It moves with him, folding in on itself until it’s not just the point of the tie, but a whole swath of silk running along my skin just above where John is fucking me at at a brutal pace.

He wraps one arm around my chest and pulls me up farther onto my knees, effectively impaling me on his prick as he begins to thrust harder. I lose the sensation of the pointed silk, but I gain something I hadn’t even dared to dream of—John, fully suited, pressed against my naked back. As he drags me closer, sucking a bruise into my shoulder, his fingernails dig into my collarbone and the buttons on his shirt threaten to fuse with my spine.

“You feel so good,” he pants, wheezing, and I answer him with a needy backwards push. 

The friction of his shirtfront against my back sends sympathetic curls of electricity through my body, shooting directly to my cock like pleasure-inducing static. I want to get a hand on myself, but I resist, instead choosing to set my arms out in front of me to give myself the leverage to help him fuck me.

“Harder, John,” I gasp, desperately pushing my hips back to meet him where he’s slowly starting to lose his pace. I simultaneously want him to come in his funeral suit and drag this out for hours.

“I need you to come,” he says, slipping the hand that’s been gripping my hip around to grasp at my cock. “God, I need to feel you come.”

I throw my head back as his cuff link accidentally grazes the tip of my prick, and when he gets his fingers around me, it takes almost nothing before I’m shaking apart beneath him. 

“Oh fu—” I curl in on myself as I start to come in his loose fist, and he drops onto my back behind me, giving a few more powerful thrusts before he follows me over the edge. My skin tingles from head to toe, downloading every sensation of his now-rumpled suit pressed against me as John shudders through his orgasm, hips twitching feebly where he’s buried deep.

I hum contentedly once I’ve sufficiently memorized every second of the last 36 minutes, shifting just enough that he’s clued in that he needs to extricate himself. With a huff, he slowly pulls out, taking care. I can feel his come slowly dripping out of me—he must see it too, because he clears his throat in a way that makes me think he wishes he could go again.

“Let me just get something to clean you up,” he says, ever the caretaker, clearing his throat once more, determined. I look over my shoulder and grin—he doesn’t take his eyes off of my arsehole until he has to physically turn to leave the room.

When he returns with a damp flannel, he wipes me down and then hands it to me so I can clean up the couch. 

Thank goodness it’s leather. Easier cleanup than upholstery.

We’ve learned that the hard way. Multiple times. 

“God, look at me,” John says, laughing darkly.

I take him in the same way he looked at me with renewed hunger just a moment ago. He’s loosened his tie at some point, and it’s hanging limply, pointing to his softening cock where it’s still hanging out of his open flies. I’d take it as a challenge if I didn’t feel as spent as he looks.

“I’m never going to be able to wear this suit again without thinking of this,” he says, shrugging off the suit jacket and flipping it to see the lube stains at the hem. “I don’t even know where I could get this cleaned without dying of mortification.”

“I’ll send it out,” I say, taking a few steps toward him and relieving him of his tie.

“I can’t believe we did that,” he says, shaking his head, but there’s not an ounce of regret in his tone. He just sounds incredulous. “I just got home from a funeral.”

“Yes, but you barely knew him.”

“Still seems a bit inappropriate.”

I hum, absentmindedly unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Also seems a bit backwards to be undressing me _now_.”

I pull at his shirttails. “I have been told I’m bad at following standard operating procedures,” I reply, pushing down his trousers and pants in one go. “But I think a memorable shag like that calls for cuddling after, as you no doubt remember I’m quite fond, and I’d like to have you naked for that portion of the afternoon.”

John huffs a laugh and attempts to kick off his shoes where they’re buried under the pile of clothes that has fallen haphazardly. “I guess that makes logical sense, mm?” He leans forward for a kiss, now clad only in his socks. When he draws away, he leaves his hand on my chest, tender, so different from the man who bruisingly dug his fingers into my hips five minutes ago. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I got a bit enthusiastic at the end there.”

“Mm-nnn,” I respond, shaking my head against his lips. “It was exactly what I wanted.”

“And now you want a cuddle?” His arms snake around my back, and it finally occurs to me how ridiculous it is that we’ve just had rather athletic sex in the sitting room on a Tuesday afternoon. “How quaint.”

“Tea and cuddling now, yes,” I reply. 

“I can do that,” he says, pressing one last kiss to my shoulder before turning and walking into the kitchen.

He’s still wearing tall black socks as he pads away from me, and I grimace.

“Please take off those ridiculous socks before you come to bed.” I walk off toward the bedroom, leaving his best (and now most-defiled) suit in a heap on the sitting room floor. It’ll serve as an explicit clue to Mrs. Hudson that we should be left alone if she comes to call.

When John comes to bed six minutes later and sets down two fresh cups of tea on the nightstand, I roll my eyes. He’s still wearing the socks.

“Wearing socks to bed is the pinnacle of inappropriate behavior.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t always respond to comments, but I read every. single. one. Thank you in advance for your kudos and comments and (do I dare to dream?) for reccing this doc to your friends.


End file.
